Well Earned
by lydia the eleventh
Summary: ONESHOT. AU, PostCotBP. James and Elizabeth share a quiet moment after thirtythree years of marraige. Unapologetic Norribeth fluff.


_i._

This cot is barely large enough for the two of them, but it is a habit neither wishes to break. It is an old ritual. He retires first, and she next – it has always been so, on board ship. The swaying of the cot and slow rise and fall of her husband's chest are her favorite comfort; having Elizabeth to hold in his arms is his own.

His hand moves to her hair. Though it's dark, both know that there are wide swaths of grey at her temples and growing streaks of steel in her hair. James is wont to say it is endearing, but such comments usually earn him a good-natured jab at the fact he _needs_ a wig. There are certain consequences to age, after all, and, at the ages of sixty-one and fifty-three, James and Elizabeth are thankful to be healthy, whole, and alive.

Thirty-three years of marriage – it was not easy, at first, and both were once of a mind to go their separate ways. They are ashamed of their earliest years, of misunderstandings, unintended harm, and cold cordiality for the other. Yet somewhere both met halfway, and not only did their marriage survive, but love flourished.

He kisses her forehead impulsively, and she smiles.

_ii._

Thirty three years. There's much to show for it.

James and Elizabeth have six children – and a seventh, their firstborn, who died before the sun rose on him for the first time. Edmund Weatherby is their eldest, named for both of his grandfathers; Adelaide, so called because Elizabeth insisted, is their youngest. Three boys followed their father down to the sea and three girls have found what they desire most. Their loving parents could not be more proud of them – from Jonathan, who led the _Naiad_ to victory though the odds were four-to-one against him, to Ophelia, who lives quietly with her quill and ink in the Somerset countryside.

In Kent, there is a quiet, little-used estate – a formal home with uncomfortable marble floors and ornate chimneys that smoke. James and Elizabeth decided to purchase Candlebirch when he was knighted, and could no longer ignore all social niceties – yet they've spent nary a year there, where they raised their children on the deck of the old _Dauntless_. It will be Edmund's, on that one day that Elizabeth does not like to think about.

There is the title, as well – Admiral Sir James and Lady Norrington. It doesn't mean much to either of them, only a reminder of James's professional proficiency. Neither likes being addressed by it, and to each other, and their close friends, they will always be James and Elizabeth, simply and only.

Many memories accompany those long years. Their wedding is often forgotten, but not slow stumbling toward understanding or the night Elizabeth gave birth to a stillborn son – all those years ago, and yet that anguish is the loudest. There is the evening of the ball and the misunderstanding that nearly destroyed them both; the gradual fight back, lit by sudden realizations and quiet gestures – a kerchief, a candle in the night, a weakness shown and painful admissions.

Strange, how much marriage was like growing up again, like falling in love. It was relearning and rememorizing – bodies to map and tempers to learn: how James loved sunrise and Elizabeth saw no higher beauty than the moon. How one word, one silence, could erase the progress of a month, and one fevered night could put an end to so many difficulties.

Elizabeth jokingly said there was a scar for every memory, and she was right, to some extent. Physical – jagged lines and slashes were common over his skin and hers, even – but other marks, some faded, some not, embedded in memory. There are things neither of them will forget, dark memories and light. They've all been tattooed, somehow, onto their very souls.

Elizabeth kisses ugly, white mark on his collarbone, and curls just a little bit tighter.

_iii._

In the morning, they will rise and dress. James will hide the pain of rheumatism in his joints; Elizabeth will mask the ache of her back in a jest. Both of them knows what age brings, anyway, so where's the object in mourning the fact James's eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be and Elizabeth's skin is neither smooth nor unblemished? No, there is none, and this present, this life at sea is what matters.

But now the cot rocks gently, easily. Timbers groan and sigh with the motion of a ship on the sea. So things have always been, and so things will always be.

James's men – even those who have only served under him for a short time – are not above the morbid comment that the Norringtons will both be buried at sea in that cot. But there are thousands of sea miles until that point, many watches to be stood and grandchildren to bless, and only then will they retire so permanently, so customarily: Elizabeth, curled, James's torso her pillow, and his arms around her.


End file.
